Street of the Five Moons (7 page)

The room was arranged to provide a setting that would awe most visitors. Its high windows, draped in gold swags and festoons, opened onto a terrace so thickly planted with shrubs and flowers that it looked like a descendant of one of the Hanging Gardens. The Persian carpet on the floor was fifty feet long by twenty-five wide — a glorious, time-faded blend of cream and salmon, aquamarine and topaz. The desk should have been in the museum downstairs, and the paintings on the walls were the greatest of the great masters.

But the woman didn’t need that setting. She would have been impressive in a soup kitchen. Her black hair surely owed something to art, for the lines in her face betrayed the decades — at least four of them, if I was any judge. She had one of those splendid profiles you see on Roman coins, and I got a good look at it, because her head was turned sideways when I came in. She was looking out the window.

The secretary’s discreet murmur made several things clearer. It was loaded with long, hissing feminine endings. “Principessa, Direttoressa….” and then the name. What else? The last of the Concinis was still hanging on in the family mansion.

She meant to make me feel like a great overgrown clod from some barbarian country, and she succeeded. I went clumping across the floor — my feet looked and sounded like size fourteens — hating that Roman profile more every second. I reached the desk and looked in vain for a chair. She gave me thirty seconds — I counted them to myself — and then turned, very slowly. A faint smile curved her full lips. It was a closed smile, with no teeth showing, and I was reminded of the enigmatic smiles of early Greek and Etruscan statues — an expression that some critics find more sinister than gracious.

“Doctor Bliss? It is a pleasure to welcome a young colleague. Your superior, Herr Professor Schmidt, is an old acquaintance. I hope he is well?”

“Crazy as ever,” I said.

I hate being tall. I had a feeling she knew that, and was deliberately forcing me to stand and tower over her. So I looked around for a chair. I spotted a delicate eighteenth-century example, with priceless needlepoint on the seat, yanked it into position beside the desk, and sat down.

She stared at me for a moment. Then her lips parted and she laughed. It was a charming laugh, low pitched like her speaking voice, but vibrant with genuine amusement.

“It
is
a pleasure,” she repeated. “You are correct; Professor Schmidt is crazy, that is why he endears himself to his friends. May I serve you in any way, my dear, or is this purely a social call?”

I was disarmed, I admit. She had accepted my response to her challenge like a lady.

“I wouldn’t take up your time with a purely social call, pleasant though it is,” I said. “I have a rather peculiar story to tell you, Principessa—”

“But we are colleagues — you must call me Bianca. And you are…?”

“Vicky. Thank you…. This is going to sound as crazy as Professor Schmidt, Prin — Bianca. But it’s the honest truth.”

I told her the whole story — almost the whole story. She listened intently, her chin propped on one slender ringed hand, her black eyes never leaving my face. The eyes began to sparkle before I had gotten well under way, and when I had finished, her lips were twitching with amusement.

“My dear,” she began.

“I said it would sound crazy.”

“It does. If your credentials were not so excellent…. But I know Professor Schmidt; I know his weakness. Confess, Vicky, is this not a story that is just to his taste?”

I laughed ruefully. “Yes, it is. But—”

“What real evidence have you, after all? A dead man — but dead of natural causes, you said — with a copy of one of your museum pieces. Have you any proof that criminal acts were intended? Forgive me, but it seems to me that you and Professor Schmidt have postulated a plot on very slim evidence.”

“That might have been true two days ago,” I said. “But what about the antique shop on the Via delle Cinque Lune?”

“A sketch, however detailed, is not evidence, my dear. I am glad, by the way, that I do not have to take official notice of your activities. I know the shop, Vicky. Signor Fergamo, the owner, is a most respected man.”

“He might not know that the shop is being used for criminal purposes,” I argued. “That damn — I mean, that English manager—”

“I don’t know him.” Her delicate brows drew together as she pondered. “He must be new. The former manager of the establishment was Fergamo’s son-in-law. Even so…”

She paused politely, waiting for me to answer.

She had me over a barrel. The single piece of conclusive, damning evidence I had was the story of my kidnapping, and that was the one thing I had omitted from my narrative. I’m not sure why I hadn’t told her about that; I guess I felt it sounded so demented that it would cast an air of incredibility over an already unbelievable story. After all, she was a member of the old Roman nobility, and so was the man I suspected of being part of the gang. Would she believe an accusation against Count Caravaggio? She was more likely to conclude that I was some kind of escaped lunatic.

All this went through my head in a flash of thought. I couldn’t see any way out of the dilemma.

“You’re sure you haven’t lost any jewels?” I asked feebly.

Her eyes twinkled, but she managed to keep a straight face.

“I will check. Does that please you?”

“Thank you.”

“Not at all. It was gracious of you to warn me. As you say, it does no harm to take precautions. But while I am looking over our collection, is there any way in which I can make your holiday in Rome more enjoyable? Introductions, suggestions?”

That gave me an opening.

“There are some private collections I’d like to see,” I said innocently. “I had intended to telephone, but it would certainly make things easier if you could vouch for me.”

“It would be a pleasure. Which collections?”

“Count Caravaggio’s.”

“Caravaggio?” Her eyebrows soared. “My dear is that wise?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

She studied me thoughtfully, her chin in her cupped hand, her eyes shining.

“Very well,” she said, after a moment. “You may find him amusing. I will telephone immediately.”

Like every object in the room, even the utilitarian telephone was a work of art — a gilded mother-of-pearl set that might have stood on the desk of a French President. She got through right away, but it took the count’s butler some time to locate him. While she waited, Bianca put a cigarette in a long jade holder. She looked like a cross between the Dragon Lady and an ad for expensive, custom-made cigarettes.

Finally the count came on the wire. She addressed him by his first name.

“Pietro?… I am well, thank you, and you?… Excellent. I have a treat for you, my dear; a charming young lady from America who is a distinguished art scholar. She wishes to view your collection…. Yes, yes, indeed she is…. One moment, I will ask.”

Her hand over the mouthpiece, she smiled at me.

“Have you lunched yet, Vicky? Pietro would like you to join him if you have no other engagement. In half an hour’s time.”

Knowing what I know now, I probably should have declined that invitation. Even knowing what I knew then, I should have taken time to think it over. Being me — impetuous and not always too bright — I was delighted, and said so. The principessa returned to the telephone.

“She accepts with pleasure, Pietro.
Bene
; in half an hour, then. Yes, my dear, we must dine one day soon…. Good-bye.”

“I can’t thank you enough,” I said, as she replaced the instrument. “I guess I won’t have time to go back to the hotel first.”

“I think not. Please make use of my private quarters if you wish to freshen up. My secretary will show you.”

I thanked her again, and rose. She leaned back in her leather executive’s chair, her hand toying idly with a magnificent diamond brooch. Like her rings, it glittered expensively. Obviously she was not gainfully employed because she needed the money.

“Don’t thank me yet,” she said. “I warn you, Pietro can be rather… But I feel sure you can cope.”

I thanked her for the third time. She was smiling quite broadly as I left; in a lady less elegant, I might have been tempted to call it a grin.

II

The minute I met the count I knew why she had given me that funny, cat-and-canary smile.

I had never met a man who wore a corset before. It was so obvious, not only from the rigidity of his tummy, but from his slightly apoplectic expression and the stiff way he walked.

He was beautifully dressed. Roman tailors are superb, and he patronized the best. His suit was of dazzling white linen with a cummerbund of scarlet silk. He had a red carnation in his buttonhole. His hair had been brushed across his head and lacquered into place, but it didn’t quite cover the bald spot. I wondered why he didn’t buy a toupee. Maybe he hadn’t quite faced the extent of the disaster; people don’t see what they don’t want to see. His face was as round as his uncorseted stomach would have been, and if I hadn’t been prejudiced I would have thought it a pleasant face. His little black mustache was an obvious imitation of Clark Gable’s. He had a habit of stroking it with one finger while he talked — when his hands weren’t otherwise occupied.

He was gorgeously turned out, but his hands were the pièce de résistance — soft and white and plump, the nails polished to a mirror surface. I had a good opportunity to judge, because they were all over me from the minute I walked into his library.

I had taken a taxi, for fear of being late, but the count was in no hurry to get to his food. He kept pressing sherry on me. Poor man, I suppose he thought I’d get drunk. I let him pat me and stroke my arm for a while. Then I decided he had had enough fun for the day, so I pushed my chair back and stood up.

“Your home is magnificent, Count,” I cooed. “This is the first time I have ever seen an Italian palace — one that is still lived in, I mean, not a museum.”

“Ah, this.” With one eloquent gesture the count waved away marble floor, gold-and-crystal chandeliers, rosewood paneling set with malachite and lapis lazuli, thousands of rare leather-bound volumes…. “The place is falling apart. It is no longer possible to live with any elegance, thanks to the oppressive, reactionary, revolutionary government. I keep my finest treasures in my country house at Tivoli. There I have managed to keep up a decent style of living. My best collections are there. You must see them. You are a scholar — though I cannot believe so beautiful a woman can be also a scholar….”

He heaved himself up off the couch, his face turning an alarming shade of purple as he made the effort, and trailed after me.

“You like books?” he inquired. “See this — one of my favorites. It has plates done especially for one of my ancestors by Raphael himself.”

He managed to get both arms around me as he reached for the book. My eyes literally popped when I looked at the first drawing. 1 had always thought of Raphael as specializing in madonnas.

“It’s amazing,” I said honestly, and then closed the book, in some alarm, as the count began wheezing. “Maybe you shouldn’t look at these pictures, Count, if they get you so—”

“You must call me Pietro,” he interrupted, catching at my shoulder. 1 let him hold on; I thought he needed the support.

Well, this went on for quite a while. We finished the sherry and the book — some of the plates were really extraordinary — and by then we were old friends. He was a harmless old guy, all he wanted to do was touch. I kept moving, not because he worried me, but because I thought evasion amused him. At the end of the conversation he invited me to be his house guest.

“Not here,” he said, waving a disparaging hand at the oriental rugs, the ormolu desk, the Donatello statues…. “It is unbearable here when the weather is hot. Tomorrow I move to my house at Tivoli. You will join me there. You will appreciate my collections, since you are an expert, although I cannot believe a woman so beautiful, so voluptuous….”

At that interesting moment the butler opened the door and announced lunch. Pietro’s fat pink face lengthened.

“We must go, I suppose. Helena will be rude if I do not come at once.”

“Helena?” I took the arm he offered me. He squeezed my hand against his side. “Is she your wife?”

“No, no, my mistress. A very unpleasant woman. A beautiful face and body, you understand — though not so beautiful as yours—”

“I guess you should know,” I said resignedly.

“But very jealous,” said Pietro. “Very rude. Do not let her intimidate you, Vicky, I beg.”

“I won’t. But if you find her so obnoxious, why don’t you get rid of her?”

“It is not so easy, that,” said Pietro sadly. “Wait till you meet her.”

Believe it or not, I had almost forgotten my motive for looking up Count Caravaggio. He was such a silly little man. It was almost impossible to picture him as a master criminal. We were crossing the huge hall, with its original Greek statues set in shell-shaped niches, when I was brought back to reality with a rude thump. A door opened, and a familiar form emerged.

“You,” I gasped, like a good Gothic heroine.

The Englishman raised one eyebrow. Not both, just one. I hate people who can do that.

“I fear you have the advantage of me,” he said, in an offensive public-school drawl. “Your Excellency?”

“Yes, yes. I introduce you,” said Pietro, without enthusiasm. “It is my secretary, Miss Bliss. Sir John Symthe.”

“Sir?” I said. “Smith?”

“With a
y
and an
e
on the end,” said John Smythe suavely. “An obscure title, but an old one, and not without honor.”

“Oh, yeah?” I replied uncouthly. “What about those stories about your ancestor and Pocahantas?”

“A cadet branch of the family,” said the Englishman, without cracking a smile.

Pietro, who had not understood any of this, interrupted in a petulant voice.

“We are late for lunch. It is well we meet you, John; you must make arrangements for tomorrow. Miss Bliss — she is Doctor Bliss, in fact, a learned lady — she will accompany us to Tivoli. You will have one of the cars pick her up at her hotel. The car I will travel in, you understand?”